


Escaping the Shadow

by Silex



Series: Escaping the Shadow [1]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: AU, Alternate Hogwarts House Sorting, Mentions of other characters - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-09
Updated: 2018-02-09
Packaged: 2019-03-15 17:08:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,516
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13617846
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Silex/pseuds/Silex
Summary: The Sorting Ceremony should have been simple for Draco, the first step in carrying on family tradition, but it didn't happen that way. Instead it was the first step towards something else, something that none of the Malfoys were ready for.





	Escaping the Shadow

**Author's Note:**

  * For [makiyakinabe](https://archiveofourown.org/users/makiyakinabe/gifts).



> The request was that Draco end up sorted differently and the reaction of his family. How could I turn down the opportunity to explore the Malfoy family and their distinct personalities? It's a stand alone piece, complete in and of itself, a look at immediate responses rather than long term consequences. I hope you all enjoy.

The Hat had barely been placed on his head when it began, “S…”

It trailed off. All he could hear was the blood pounding in his ears, or maybe it was the murmurs of the other students at their House tables. His whole head was an echo chamber thanks to the Hat.

“Mind thinking that last bit again?” this time when the Hat spoke it was only in his head, drowning out all other thoughts and noise.

Frustration at being stymied by a piece of clothing, albeit a powerfully magical one, he let loose. All in his mind of course.

“I was thinking of my family’s pride, of their noble and illustrious name being carried on by me, of my restoring them to their rightful place in the Wizarding world rather than the decline they’re facing. Wizarding society is falling to pieces, run by doddering idiots, fools who’d betray their own names for short-term gain, mudbloods, muggleborns and blood traitors. The Malfoy name should be feared, not despised. There are those that look at us with scorn because they remember how powerful we were, how powerful we could have been if not for the war. But that’s just a setback! The Malfoy name will once again be one of the most respected in the Wizarding world!”

“Big thoughts for a little boy,” the hat said sagely, “But are they yours or your father’s? I’m sorting you boy. I already sorted your father years ago and have no desire to do it again.”

Draco felt his face flush. Much of what he’d said? thought? _had_ been from the endless lectures he’d received from his father, but he’d taken it all to heart and knew it to be true.

“Tell me what you want, not what your father wants of you. Lucius was a powerful, willful man, but what about you? What do you want Draco?”

The Hat’s tone was quiet, sympathetic and that only further infuriated him. He wanted respect, not pointless, useless pity from an animated, inanimate object.

“I want,” he clenched his fists at his sides, trying to shout in his mind, “To uphold the name of my family, to restore it to its glory and see to it that we get the respect we deserve. I want people to respect us, to look at us with admiration. I want people to envy me, to wish that they could accomplish what I have. I want to make my parents proud.”

The hat made a thoughtful sound. He could feel it shift its weight on his head, “Both your parents?”

“Of course!” he snapped, “Now put me in the right House or I’ll go to the table myself.”

The Hat ignored his demand, an unfamiliar feeling, “Even if it’s difficult?”

“What’s the point of something if it’s not difficult?” he raged, “The Malfoys of the past didn’t become infamous by sitting around doing nothing. We’re hard workers behind the scenes, planners, ambitious and not afraid to get our hands dirty!”

“A very interesting way of putting it,” the Hat chuckled, “I like your attitude, a lot more determination than your father, that’s for certain. Sorting you has been a pleasure.”

But it hadn’t sorted him yet! Still, it saying that it liked him more than his father placated him slightly. It was a start, earning the respect of something by his own efforts rather than his family name.

“There’s clearly only one House for you,” the Hat said loudly in his mind, its silent voice full of conviction, “And that’s –”

Draco started to stand even before it spoke, hands reaching up in anticipation of taking it off and ending the grueling ordeal that in reality couldn’t have lasted for longer than the span of a heartbeat.

“Hufflepuff!”

He managed to bring his hands to the brim of the Hat before the word and the following silence reached his ears.

Suddenly, for some reason, some hex most likely, his knees felt like they’d no longer support him and the floor bucked an heaved like a wild thing. Hands grabbed his shoulders, someone asked him if he was alright, if he could walk.

Was he cursed, befuddled? Had he not listened to his mother again and fallen off his broom while flying laps of the gardens? That had to be it. Only his mother would be asking if he was alright, if he needed some water, needed a chair. He’d fallen off his broom and was hallucinating because otherwise…

How badly had he hit his head?

Enough that the world was a pinpoint of color and sound through wavering gray that blotted out most of his vision.

Someone helped him to a chair, not one of the comfortable, plush ones of home, but something hard, a threadbare cushion hardly providing any padding between him and the seat. Silent, pale faces stared at him through the deep, gray tunnel that his shock had trapped him in, his new Housemates greeting him.

A clammy, frightened hand on his shoulder, a much older student offering him weak congratulations.

Slowly, faraway a single set of hands clapped once. Another, but the pause was too long.

A joyful whoop from…Dumbledore, one that Professor Sprout followed up on with vigorous clapping to mask uncertain cheers.

Then it was over, the next name was called and the welcome blankness of true unconsciousness took him.

\---

The tone at Malfoy Manor was one of excitement, the sort of anticipation one felt before a summer storm.

The owl had arrived early in the day, but Lucius had insisted that they wait to open Draco’s letter until a proper celebration was prepared. Narcissa had held her tongue, though it had been a struggle. The owl had arrived too soon and, before her husband had snatched it away from her, she’d seen that the handwriting was all wrong. The differences were subtle, but she could see the marks of hesitation, little flaws in the otherwise perfect penmanship. A blur, a stray blot of ink from a shaking quill. Something was wrong, something that only she, as a mother, could see.

And yet her husband had insisted on waiting, having the servants prepare a feast and inviting friends to the Manor, his friends, not hers, to be there for the reading of the letter, the first piece of mail sent to them by their son.

Except where Lucius’ friends were too polite, too fearful to say anything, hers were not. She’d heard whispers, rumors, terrible things, because gossip traveled faster than an owl could ever hope to. None of them had gotten letters from their sons and daughters, but people knew people who knew things. The letter must have been sent the moment the sorting finished, by the time Lucius would be reading it the students would have hardly gotten into bed, were probably up talking excitedly with their new Housemates.

Why had Draco felt the need to write rather than spending time with the friends he was no doubt making, his first friends? Why was he writing to the two of them rather than laughing and joking and making friends, or connections, as Lucius called it?

What was so important that it couldn’t wait?

She didn’t know, wouldn’t know.

Because with all of them assembled at the table, her at Lucius’ side as was fitting, trying to pass off her fear as excitement and anticipation, pretending that the tears in her eyes were from joy rather than fear, Lucius opened the letter.

He started reading, triumph in his voice:

‘ _Mother, Father_ ,’

It had frozen her heart, that Draco had put her first. He’d always turned to his father first, only come to her when it was truly dire, when it was something that he couldn’t tell to anyone else and now Lucius was about to share it with everyone.

Except he didn’t.

‘ _Everything is_ – ’

Lucius didn’t just flush with rage, his face turned purple, then drained to white. Throwing the letter in the fire he ordered everyone to leave, standing quivering with rage until the last one was out the door.

Only then did he collapse into his chair, as though he’d been hit by a curse. The killing curse from the way all light left his eyes. The rage that had held him standing, kept him in one place while their guests left, had left him.

Left him with nothing.

Eyes flat and dull, dead, he looked at her, drained his glass of wine and looked at her again. Hate started to flare up, then died.

He reached for the bottle, an expensive vintage, his favorite because of its price and rarity rather than its bouquet. His hands shook as he started to pour himself a glass. Wine spilt over the lip, barely an inch landing in the glass itself, a spreading pool of crimson too dark to even make her think of blood, though the thought did spring to her mind, on the white table linen.

“Dobby!” he croaked, “Clean this mess you…”

The House Elf cringed into the room, not even bothering with a practiced duck as the glass went flying in his direction.

Narcissa winced.

It was a clean miss.

Lucius never missed.

To his credit the Elf reacted as though his aim had been true, reeling back in an appropriate display of fear, bracing for the follow through as Lucius picked up the bottle.

And took a deep drink.

Color returned to his face, a patchy flush granted by the wine.

“You,” he tried again, this time looking at her as Dobby skulked at the edge of the room, blotting at spilled drops of wine with his pillowcase, anxiously awaiting their departure so he could clean the uneaten feast, “This is your fault.”

Rage was trying to kindle itself in his eyes, she could tell, and she found herself hoping for the explosion, the volatile passion that she loved him for. His rage was rarely aimed at her, in his own way he loved her too much for that, but she had felt it and right now she longed for it in all its horrifying might.

Because that would have been better than this terrible nothing, a void where there had once been a blazing inferno.

She remembered the war, the burned ruins, the burned husks.

Lucius was still breathing, barely, pale as death, but she remembered the crackle of flame, the choking heat of the fires, the smell.

Dear Merlin the smell!

It was just the roast from the feast, but seeing her husband barely able to move, eyes open but blank, she couldn’t stand it.

“Dobby!” she rose to her feet, frightening herself with the rage in her voice, “This filth! I cannot abide by this filth! Get it…get it out of here!”

She gestured at the table with a sweep of her arm, remembering the smell of burning death. They’d been muggles, filth, and the scum that had tried to protect them. The smell had been of burning meat, the same as cooking, fitting for what they were, little more than beasts.

Or so she’d told herself at the time.

But now, with Lucius looking so close to death himself, any reminder was vile.

“Y-yes Mas…Mistress,” the Elf stammered, taking two hurried steps forward and falling over his own feet as he halted, fearful to clear the table while they were still at it.

“A hat,” Lucius gasped, eyes wide, “Get the wretch a hat! A damned hat!”

The only actual emotion in his voice was when he said ‘hat’, like it was the vilest of curses, like he was willing someone dead. It was the tone you needed for the killing curse to work.

And it worked, the tone, not the threat.

Dobby began clearing the table, starting as far from them as possible.

Lucius took another swig of the wine and staggered out of the room. He wasn’t drunk, not yet, but something else had robbed him of all strength.

Listening to the nervous clinking of silver and china being whisked away by the Elf she stared at the fire, the curls of smoke that had consumed her answer.

Why?

What had been in that letter that had come as close as anything to killing her husband?

What had happened to Draco?

There was only one thing to do.

Standing up she strode boldly out of the dining room and started towards her chambers, only to hesitate at the door.

No, this wasn’t something she could do from her room. This wasn’t something she could do as a mother. This needed to be done as a Malfoy.

Squaring her shoulders she turned sharply and marched herself to her husband’s study. He wasn’t there, but his things were a comfort. The heavy quill, feathers fraying at the tip, its nib slightly bent, but still serviceable, put her mind at ease. If anyone doubted her husband’s sentimentality one only needed to look at that quill that Draco had given him as a gift, to know how they spent their anniversary each year, to see what he did for her on her birthday, the little gifts for no reason at all. He put on a strong face for the world, but she knew his secret self, just as she knew her son’s secret self. It was her duty as a wife and mother, to be strong for her men, both of them. The letter had contained some weakness meant only for her eyes and it had nearly destroyed her husband. What she bore had been too much for him, but now she needed to at least recall his strength, a different strength than hers, a harder, more refined one, rather than the primal, animal screaming in her mind.

Trying to hear her words in Lucius’ voice she began her letter.

‘ _Headmaster Dumbledore_ ,’

It took her three tries, three discarded lengths of parchment for just those two words, before she could hear the right amount of scorn, respect for the title, distain for the man who held it.

‘ _Draco has made me aware of…_ ’

She didn’t know what, but Lucius was good at hiding what he did and did not know. These were uncertain times that they lived in after all.

There was also her own desperation to draw on.

‘ _A most alarming event happening. I demand a clarification. Why was this allowed to come to pass? Draco was clearly distraught on this, his first day at your school and your responsibility is to see to the safety and comfort of your students. I want to know if this is truly the dereliction of duty that it seems to be, or if there has been a misunderstanding. You have run afoul of the Ministry in the past so I find myself questioning the efficacy of your unorthodox methods._ ’

That felt right, threats, but the chance to apologize. It felt strange to be threatening a man as powerful as the Headmaster of Hogwarts, but it was something Lucius would do. He did speak ill of the man often enough that the recollection of his insults helped.

The letter was sent by the fastest owl the post had to offer, not one of theirs because this was a matter of delicacy, one that she had to handle herself until her husband was sufficiently recovered.

She didn’t sleep at all that night, lost in her own thoughts and worry. The sound of tapping at her window rather than the light of the coming day roused her from her misery. A large, but discreet looking owl rapped its beak impatiently at the glass.

Opening the window she took the letter and was nearly knocked down by the backdraft of its wings as it turned sharply and hopped out the window, vanishing into the predawn gloom.

The letter was from Hogwarts, addressed to her, specifically her, to be delivered to her in her chambers. It froze her blood, numbed her hands to the point where she tore the parchment breaking the wax seal that held it shut. Not the seal of Hogwarts, but a yellow and black badger.

It was from Pomona Sprout, Herbology Professor and Head of Hufflepuff House.

The contents of the letter itself…

They explained so much, broke her heart and at the same time lifted an immense weight off her shoulders.

It was a tragedy to be sure, an agony for her, Draco and Lucius, but as a mother she was familiar with agony. There was always pain in joyful things, that was a lesson she had learned.

Her first time with Lucius, which had been her first time with any man, later giving birth to Draco, watching him grow, become independent as a boy could be, seeing him leave for Hogwarts, start on his journey of becoming a young man, a journey that would in time take him away from her.

Her husband couldn’t see it, Draco couldn’t see it and she barely could, but there would be a light at the end of this. At the moment it was the barest flicker, but she could see it and she would hold onto it.

This was an end, but it was a beginning.

Draco would be free in a way he could not yet comprehend, a way that would seem horrifying to a young boy, one that had grown up in the long, looming shadow of his father, of his own name.

It was his chance to escape this shadow, to grow in a new way.

How appropriate Herbology was, and it was a discipline closely connected to Potions. She could write to Snape as well, ask him to give an extra word of encouragement to the boy, say what he needed to hear, that he would have made a good Slytherin, would have done a service to the House, that it had been robbed by his loss. Snape was silver-tongued, charming in the cold, deceitful way of most of her husband’s friends. They all kept themselves hidden from each other, but only Snape could do it so kindly, with such disarming sincerity. He was a man who you’d never feel stab you until he twisted the poisoned blade, never hear the hex, only feel the agony of its impact. Snape would say the right things to goad Draco into facing what lay ahead of him.

The boy was spiteful, already growing to hate his father as all young boys did.

Which was clearly why he’d ended up where he had. What better way to spite his father than to break his heart, his mind, by going against the traditions of which he was so proud? That was what she would tell Lucius, to rouse him out of his stupor and into rage. She would secretly encourage both of them, subtly play them against each other, built them up and feed their hatred. If they could barely stand each other, so be it, but at least they would be angry rather than sink into depression.

Anger would motivate them.

Draco could pour his heart, his passion into proving himself against his father. Instead of focusing on past glories, the feeble, frantic dream that someday the Dark Lord would return and restore the Malfoy name to what it had once been, a reputation earned by Wizards and Witches long dead, Draco would do it on his own, not as a servant to some greater power, but as his own man. He would reclaim the Malfoy name rather than selling it out to gain power through the acts of another, greater power.

Everything Draco would do he would do for himself and in doing so claim the Malfoy family name as his own and bring it into the future, carry it above its tarnished past. _Purity in all things_ , that was the family motto, wasn’t it? And how long had it been since that actually mattered?

It was an immense responsibility for such a young boy, but he could do it, she had faith in him, more than he had in himself.

After all, the founders of the Malfoy line hadn’t come from greatness, they had done it all through hard work and ruthless, merciless determination. It was a lesson that her son would do well to learn, one that he wouldn’t be able to surrounded by hangers on and sycophants, coasting on his father’s reputation.

If it took being made Hufflepuff to do it, then that was the way things would be.

Draco would be his own man and find his own path to greatness, becoming the man that she knew he could be rather than the one that his father and responsibility struggled to shape him into. They had all been stuck in the past for too long, clinging to ancient glories rather than setting about to create new ones, but that had been ended in one terrible, shattering moment.

They would pick up the pieces though, and be stronger for it.

It was time to start looking to the future rather than wishing that they could live in the past...


End file.
